It’s a crappy shot. Off-center and blurred, the camera in motion. But the full plate is there, and I can make out enough of the vehicle emblem—
“Excuse me.” A glowering senior waves me aside brusquely. “You are blocking the biscuits.”
I pay for the cookies and hurry from the store. When I spot a coffee shop, I veer toward it. I’m tempted to bypass the counter. Sit and pretend I’m waiting for someone while I get a better look at the photo. But I squelch the urge, treat myself to a caramel latte and a blondie, and then take a seat buoyed by the righteousness of having paid to occupy it.
I import the photo into an app and refine it. I don’t have proper graphics programs these days, but basic apps will do a decent job. The first thing I notice starts my heart pounding.
This isn’t mud splatter from a dirt road. The dirt has been deliberately applied. I have a three-year-old; I know the pattern finger painting leaves. I can see the marks where fingers smeared on the mud. The rest of the car is spotless.
I reach for my phone. Then I stop.
A child is missing. And while I pray it’s only a custody issue, it could be more. It could be worse. I need all the ammunition I can get before I place this call.
I can see part of the SUV emblem and the first two letters of the vehicle name. TA. I’m no good at recognizing car logos, so I search on my phone browser and get a page of images.
It’s a Chevrolet. And while my mind immediately fills in the rest of the name as “Tahoe,” I search for all Chevrolet SUV and crossover names. Three start with T: Tahoe, Trax, and Traverse. It’s possible that the second letter is an R instead, but I’m definitely looking at a big SUV, not a crossover.
A Chevrolet Tahoe with a deliberately mud-smeared license plate. I can get access to better enhancement software and try making out the plate, but that takes time. The police need this information now.
I pick up my phone and dial Officer Cooper’s number. Voice mail answers.
I call the station’s main number instead and say I need to speak to Officer Cooper urgently, concerning a case.
I’m finished with my latte and my blondie before he phones back, and even then, when I answer, he greets me with a weary, “Yes, Ms. Finch,” as if I’ve been calling him hourly.
“I have a photo. Of the vehicle.”
A pause long enough that I wonder if he’s hung up. Then a slow, “Photo?”
“I wanted to take one of the SUV, but it pulled away while I was getting my camera ready. Apparently, I still snapped a shot. It’s not great, but I can identify the vehicle as a Chevrolet Tahoe. A dark blue Chevy Tahoe.”
A sigh vibrates along the line. “I appreciate you letting me know, Ms. Finch, but we still have no report of a missing child. Without any evidence of a crime, I can’t chase down a vehicle based on a make, model, and color.”
“The license plate was deliberately smeared with mud.”
“What?”
I try to keep the lilt of satisfaction out of my voice. Calm and steady. “I have a shot of the plate, which you may be able to analyze for the actual number, but right now, I can tell you that it isn’t accidentally splattered with mud. It’s been smeared on. I can see finger marks.”
Silence.
“There is no mud on the rest of the vehicle, sir,” I say. “Just the plate, where the number has been disguised.”
“You can tell that the plate has been deliberately smeared with mud.”
“I have a three-year-old, sir. I know what smearing looks like. Paint, food, dirt, you name it, I’ve seen it smeared. The whorl pattern is there, and the lines—”
“I … appreciate your … diligence in this matter, Ms. Finch. You have gone … above and beyond.”
That tone in his voice isn’t admiration. I hear the hesitation, as if he’s struggling not to tell me I’m crazy. I open my mouth, but he continues.
“There isn’t a missing child,” he says. “It comes down to that. Few crimes are reported as quickly as a snatched kid. Even then, kidnapped children are exceedingly rare. I know you’ve probably seen a hundred movies with children grabbed on the street, but I’ve been on the force thirty years and never worked a single stranger-grab case. It just doesn’t happen.”
“Because it’s usually custody based. The noncustodial parent takes their child. There’s no reason that isn’t what we have here, sir.”
“Yes, there is, Ms. Finch. There is the lack of a reported missing child. You’re a single mom with a little girl. Imagine if your ex lost custody and grabbed her at the playground.”
He wouldn’t. First, Paul is too good a parent to ever lose custody altogether. Second, he’d never take her. He will fight like hell, but he would never resort to kidnapping.
Would I?
My gut seizes at the question. I don’t want to consider it. I certainly don’t want to answer it.
Cooper continues. “How long would it take you to report her missing, Ms. Finch? Not two days, I bet.”
“Maybe the mom is trying to resolve this on her own. Maybe the father is threatening their son, and she’s afraid to call the—”
“Again, you are falling into dangerous speculative territory, Ms. Finch.”
“Okay, but—”
“It remains an open case. I am still investigating. I can assure you of that. Now, I’m afraid I’m going to have to let you go, but I do appreciate your diligence in this matter. Thank you.”
He disconnects before I can say anything else.
* * *
Cooper has a point. Without a missing-child report, there isn’t a case. The situation fully supports his theory—that I witnessed a parent-child dispute—and in light of that, I can see where my “I can tell the mud was smeared” revelation seemed like something from a civilian who watches too much CSI.
When my phone rings, I’ve been on the internet for hours, hunting for other cases that might explain why this disappearance wasn’t reported.
I reach over and answer, engrossed in an article and not checking caller ID.
“You actually picked up,” Paul says. “That’s a first.”
His tone tells me I shouldn’t have.
“Hey,” I say.
“So, it’s almost eleven at night, and I’ve been telling myself you’ll call. Of course you’ll call. Well, no, you never call. You text. Sometimes email. But you will make contact and explain yourself.”
“Explain myself?” I bristle. “If you’re talking about Gayle and the princess tea—”
“Is there another fiasco I should know about?”
I grit my teeth and count to three.
“You’re right,” I say. “I should have told you. I got … caught up in something. I did ask Gayle to pass on my apologies to you.”
“She shouldn’t have to.”
“Fair enough. I’m sorry, Paul. I really am. I’m sorry you got called when you were in court, and I’m even more sorry that Gayle had to clean up my mess.”
Silence.
Not the calm response you were expecting? I have other things on my mind right now. More important things.
“I’d like to call Gayle,” I say. “To apologize again. If you could give me her number—”
He snorts. “No, I’m not giving you her number. God only knows what you’d do with it.”
“Excuse me? I would use it to apologize and thank her. If you think I have any issue with you dating again, I don’t. I’m glad you are. She seems—”
“This isn’t about Gayle. It’s about our daughter, who has been looking forward to this for weeks. To having tea with her mother. Her mother who forgot. Completely forgot, and then made up some story about working late and car trouble and—”
“Made up?” My calm teeters, ready to shatter. “Seriously, Paul? When I make mistakes, I own them. This is no one’s fault but mine. Yes, there was a moment where I forgot, because I have a lot on my mind. But I did work late, and my car belt is broken.” I head for the apartment door. “Here, let me send you
a photo of the engine.”
“You don’t have to do that, Aubrey.” His voice lowers. “You’re right. That was uncalled for. I’m sure your car—”
“Oh, hell, no. I’m sending you the proof. Just like I’ll send you a photo of my time card. You aren’t going to question me and then not give me the chance to defend myself, Counselor.”
“Don’t pull that. I am not a lawyer here, Aubrey. I’m your—the father of your child, who is calling about that child.”
I keep walking, stocking-footed, into the building hall. “And I disappointed her. Do you think I don’t realize that? Do you think I’m not completely ashamed and humiliated?”
“You don’t need to be. It was…” He sighs. “It was a mistake. I understand that. If you need money to fix your car—”
“No.”
I swear he inhales, as if fighting an argument, before he says, calmly, “You are entitled to alimony, Aubrey. You took three years off to raise our child while I worked. My income was our income.”
“I’m fine.”
“No, you’re stubborn. Stubborn and impulsive and absolutely impossible to deal—” He bites off the rest. A moment’s silence as I walk into the parking lot. Then he says, his voice softer, “What’s going on, Bree?”
“I’m having a really crappy week.”
“Maybe, but it’s more than that. Something has that busy brain of yours whirring.”
“Just … work. And I meant it about conveying my thanks again to Gayle.”
“I will. She has photos for me to send. And she got you reservations for tea a week from Sunday. Does that work?”
It does. I originally wanted a Sunday reservation, and was told they were booked up for the next six months. So how did Gayle manage it?
Because she’s the kind of woman who knows how to do things like that, skills I will never possess.
“That’s perfect. Thank you. And yes”—I pop the hood—“I’m sending you a photo of my engine, Paul, because I am stubborn, and if you call me on it, I have to defend myself.”
“You realize I wouldn’t know a broken fan belt from a loose wire, right?” He pauses. “And since when do you know how to fix a car?”
Damn it. I really am distracted.
“I don’t,” I say. “But I can Google the symptoms and narrow down the issue, and apparently, it’s a broken belt. I know Charlie’s in bed, but tomorrow, please give her a kiss for me, and we’ll Skype after dinner.”
“All right. Good night, Aubrey.”
* * *
Back in the apartment, I find an online florist and send a small thank-you arrangement to Gayle, at the law firm.
I do appreciate what she’s done, even if it makes me uncomfortable. I should be happy Paul’s new girlfriend isn’t an evil bitch, but somehow, it might have been easier if she were. When he first told me he was seeing someone, I was genuinely happy for him. What I hadn’t realized was that it raised the potential of a scenario I never considered.
A stepmom for Charlotte.
If there ever is such a thing—and there will be, Paul isn’t going to leave that void unfilled—then I want her to be everything Gayle seems to be. Kind, intelligent, and responsible. The perfect partner for Paul. The ideal role model for our daughter.
But where does that leave me?
TEN
I’ve turned off my alarm—I don’t work Thursdays. My internal drill instructor still wakes me at seven and berates me for sleeping the day away.
While I lie in bed for another twenty minutes, it’s obvious sleep isn’t an option. I decide to make sure my floral delivery for Gayle went through okay. Leaving Paul also meant leaving our joint credit cards. That had turned into a weird game of Mastercard hot potato.
I’d left my card on my nightstand after we had “the talk.” Then two weeks passed, and maybe that was how long it took him to realize I wasn’t coming back. After those two weeks, he mailed the card to me. No note. Just the card.
I returned it, also by mail. He put it into Charlotte’s weekend bag. I left it in Charlotte’s weekend bag. He put it on my passenger seat while I was strapping Charlotte in. I gave up and shredded it. The whole time, we didn’t exchange a single word about the card—just kept silently passing it back and forth.
I have my own card now, but with my lack of credit history, the limit is embarrassingly low, and even a small arrangement of flowers isn’t cheap, so I’m worried the charge might not have gone through. I check, and then I pay off enough to buy a fan belt and try not to reminisce about the days of a platinum Mastercard with a limit that would have paid for a whole new car.
Even back then, though, I only used the card for necessities. Paul used to fret about that. He’d get the statement and say, “You can spend more, Bree.”
“I don’t need to.”
“The card isn’t just for household expenses. We’re sharing a salary. You can buy things you’d like.”
“I’m good.”
His lips would tighten at that, and I’d tease that he should be glad I wasn’t blowing up the card at Lululemon. He’d mutter and walk away, and I never figured out what I’d done wrong.
That had been in our last few months together, when it seemed like nothing I did made him happy. When I felt like an intruder in his house, in his life.
I inhale and flip to the local news. Today’s top headline?
UNIDENTIFIED WOMAN’S BODY FOUND IN PARK.
I scroll past that to see if there’s any more useful news … like a missing child. Yet I can’t help skim-reading the article as I scroll. A woman in her early twenties. Found in Harris Park. Shot in the head, execution style. No ID, but CCTV cameras picked her up just outside the park on Tuesday morning—
I stop scrolling.
I turn up the brightness on my phone and enlarge the CCTV photo. It’s been enhanced, but it’s still blurry around the edges. At the moment of the freeze frame, though, she was turned toward the camera, giving a near-perfect head shot of a young woman with a blond ponytail.
It’s the woman from Sunday. The one with the boy.
I stare at the photo. She’s grim-faced, but I remember her smiles—the hesitant one for me and the joyful one for her son.
Her son.
I scramble up and start hitting 911. Then I stop and go into my recent calls and redial Cooper’s number instead.
When I get his voice mail, I hang up and try the main line I used yesterday.
“I’m calling about the murdered woman,” I say. “The one you’re trying to identify.”
“Do you recognize her?”
“Yes, I—”
“Let me connect you.”
A click. Another click. Two rings. Then a message, telling me that the line is in use, but my call is important and please hold.
Please hold.
Yep, keep holding.
As I wait, I look back at the photo.
Do you recognize the woman?
Yes, I met her.
You know her then?
Well, no, I mean, I don’t know her name or … anything about her actually, but I spoke to her briefly in the park.
The park where she was killed?
No, two blocks over, in Grant Park.
You saw her in Grant Park the day of her murder?
No, I saw her two days before. On the day of her murder, I saw her son being kidnapped …
Yeah, that conversation is not going to end well. I need to speak to someone who knows about my initial report.
I need to speak to Officer Cooper.
ELEVEN
I catch a cab to the police station, well aware that I’m now spending more on taxi fares than I would on a damned fan belt. This, however, is urgent.
I get into the station and ask to speak to Officer Cooper. He’s out. I explain that it’s about the murdered woman, and that just gets confusing. Cooper isn’t involved with that case, and the woman on the desk isn’t aware of any kidnapping.
I’m about to try explaini
ng better when an officer crosses behind the desk. She’s about my age, with dark skin, close-cropped curls, and high cheekbones. She wears a tailored blouse with a pencil skirt, but I recognize her even out of uniform.
Officer Jackson.
I hesitate. She’s not exactly my biggest cheerleader, but I brush off the misgivings—when she hears what I have to say, her opinion will change. It has to.
I leave the desk and take off after her, catching up near the entrance.
“Officer Jackson,” I say. “Aubrey Finch. I’m not sure if you remember me—”
“Yes, ma’am, I do.” Her lips tighten, and I swear her gaze shunts toward the door, as if measuring the distance.
“It’s about the murdered woman, the one whose body was found in the park. She’s connected to the kidnapping.”
“There is no kidnapping, Ms. Finch.” She speaks slowly—clearly I’m having trouble processing this concept. “No child has been reported missing.”
“Because his mother is dead. That’s the woman you found. I recognized her the moment I saw her photo.”
“I see…” Another glance toward the entrance, now filled with people coming in, talking fast among themselves. “If you believe you have information, I suggest you speak to the front desk. I really need to—”
“I’m telling you why that boy hasn’t been reported missing. His mother is dead. She was murdered only two blocks from where I saw him taken. That’s why he was in the park. That’s why she didn’t report his disappearance. She’s dead.”
Her gaze rises over my shoulder. “Ms. Finch, why don’t you—”
“Are you listening to me? Look at my report. The woman in that photo matches my description. She was murdered two blocks from where I saw her child kidnapped—on the day she was murdered. Her son was wandering around the park alone, and then he was grabbed into an SUV, probably by the guy who just shot his mom.”
“Excuse me,” a voice says behind me. “Ms.… Finch you said?”
“Aubrey Finch,” I say as I turn to see a man in a suit and overcoat. A detective. Thank God.
Wherever She Goes Page 5
